


You want honor

by MariaPurt



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Angst, Can read as friendship or romance, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pain, Possible Character Death, based on ep 3x09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:27:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28110876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MariaPurt/pseuds/MariaPurt
Summary: What if Michael doesn't let Philippa go through that door, pulling her back to Discovery instead?
Relationships: Michael Burnham & Mirror Philippa Georgiou, Michael Burnham/Mirror Philippa Georgiou
Comments: 13
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

“I was just reading about you… Emperor Georgiou dies horribly painful death.”

He goes on talking, or rather making sounds Michael can’t comprehend, this weird man who’s appeared out of nowhere; _not even a life sign_. She glances at Philippa – _Philippa_ , she calls her _that_ , and lately feels no shame doing so; not Georgiou, not emperor, _Philippa_ – but Philippa is too busy staring at the man in a hat. She is so concentrated – it almost seems like she is trying to cut him into pieces with her eyes to get a better look at what’s inside.

As if that’s going to help solve this puzzle.

This puzzle is nothing short of annoying. A _sentient_ _computer with a sense of humor_ must have been in a very joking mood when it sent them here. Because whatever this ‘here’ is, it isn’t helping. If anything, it seems to be making Philippa feel worse. She grimaces, visibly in pain, cries out bending down, and Michael’s brain lets her heart take over.

She can’t lose this Philippa the way she lost _hers_.

She glances at the bracelet, dark orange, _almost_ red. Philippa’s face pointed at her feet, she’s pressing a hand to the chest, biting her lip. The man in a hat keeps talking, but if they wait around just a little longer, it will be too late.

This will hurt either way, but back on the ship they can grant Philippa at least some level of comfort.

(They can grant _Michael_ some level of comfort, making the emperor’s end less painful).

“This is ridiculous. We’re going back to Discovery,” Michael shoots.

(It will be less painful for Philippa).

“Whatever comes, at least I’ll die, standing on my…” Philippa doesn’t finish, when Michael hits the badge. There’s this shocked, borderline frightened expression on the emperor’s face as their features disappear between the falling snowflakes. Michael takes a deep breath. She’s going to fight her, she’s going to hate her, and she’s going to be right to, because the moment they’re back on the ship, Michael sees Culber with guards awaiting them.

(It will be less painful, but sure as hell more embarrassing for the emperor, and this is when it hits Michael: it was a wrong call).

“I’m sorry,” Culber mumbles, approaching quickly.

Philippa takes a step back, swaying on her feet and trying to regain balance, then looks towards Michael.

“What have you done to me?” she spats, and Culber apologizes, pressing a hypospray to her neck. Philippa tries to push and kick him, rather awkwardly passing out with her foot up in the air. Guards rush in to catch her falling figure, but Michael is already there: grabbing Philippa under her arms and slowly lowering their bodies to the floor. Snow on Philippa’s hair and clothes starts to melt, turns into drops of water.

“This wasn’t needed,” she pushes.

“She will be safer this way, we’ll all be,” Culber responds as they exchange looks. There is a pause in the air, and then,

“Captain is afraid she’ll go nuts in the end,” Michael states drily. Saru is right of course – with no hope and mere hours left to live in agony, a terran, emperor or not, is dangerous to be around. This doesn’t make it any more okay, though. Perhaps it would have been better to stay on that planet. Let Philippa walk through the mysterious door as many times as she would desire, let her cry and scream where no one but Michael could see and hear her. She’d not want any of _this_ , she’d prefer to freeze to death. It’s too late now. It might have been a wrong decision.

She caresses Philippa’s cheek, frowning apologetically.

Culber nods, helping her lift Georgiou, and beams all three of them away. Michael doesn’t at first realize where to.

“This is the best we can do for her,” he states. Michael’s eyes widen in shock, she gasps.

“A brig? She is dying, she should be in a sickbay.”

“That would be too risky, and sickbay or not, Michael, it won’t make any difference. Not for her, at least.”

The way Michael understands it, those sedatives Philippa’s been just injected with won’t make much difference either. They won’t even keep the woman physically comfortable. They didn’t before, during her scans, when she woke up screaming, and they most certainly won’t now. She can already see how the eyelids are trembling and hands are shaking, saliva coming out between the lips stretched into a thin line.

They lower her down onto a bed. Philippa jerks, then lies still, a mix of sweat and melting snow on her forehead.

(Perhaps, also tears running from the corners of her eyes uncontrollably, but Michael forces herself not to notice it).

When – _if_ – Philippa wakes up, whoever is inside her cell, on this side of the force field, is as good as dead.

(That is, if Philippa manages to get up, but knowing how stubborn she is, Michael somehow doesn’t doubt she will).

Michael watches Culber leave. She stays. Her guilt won’t let her go. She wasn’t there for her captain, she might at least be there for her counterpart, the woman who’s saved her life so many times.

(Even if it makes that very woman more miserable than dying alone, Michael admits bitterly).

“How long does she have?” she asks, turning to look at Philippa.

“Hours at best.”

She should’ve left her there. They should have both stayed there until Philippa’s last breath, as painful as it would be. Michael squeezes her eyes shut till it hurts. 

They’re going to keep Philippa like this, bound to a bed with sedatives, isolated in a brig cell just in case the first measure is not enough. This is a sad end, even for a human. It’s even more so for a terran.

Her desire to save her, spare her has just granted her even more agony.

(Because whatever Michael says to herself, she’s grown to see how humiliation is, too, a torture for this Philippa, perhaps the worst kind).

“I’m so sorry,” her voice drops as she comes closer to a sleeping figure. “This is not the hell you wanted.”

There’s no response, and Michael exhales with something close to a guilty relief.

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

“This is not the hell you wanted.”

Michael’s voice drops to a whisper, and she carefully sits down by Philippa’s sleeping figure, tucks away the hair from her wet face, nose and cheeks still red from the cold air back on the planet. Michael pulls off her own gloves, then does the same with Philippa’s: her fingers look strange, bent unnaturally; they’re trembling, dissolving cell by cell, creating barely visible bleeding wounds – and air gets stuck in Michael’s throat as she covers them with her hand. It feels ticklish under her palm.

“I keep pulling you where you’d rather not go, don’t I?” Michael sniffs and half closes her eyes. She’s almost certain she knows how to make it right. If only it’s not too late. “You did what I asked…” she continues, thoughts waging a war inside her head. What she is about to do is wrong on every level, and yet it might be the only true decision. “It’s my turn now,” she concludes, carefully placing Philippa’s hand down onto her chest, and gets up. She transports out of the brig.

She might still be able to fix it, even if _fixing_ is too strong of a word for what she’s about to do.

Even if that hurts her personally way more than other alternatives (but this is something she’ll dwell on later, when there’s time, because with all the fairness it is _her_ fault, and she owes this much to Philippa).

A moment later she is back.

Holding two swords in her hand, Michael stands above the emperor who no longer looks like an emperor; watching her sleeping face, a grimace of pain on it. Her own heart pounds so loud she almost doesn’t hear the moans coming from Philippa. It takes longer for Michael to force herself to _proceed_ than it took her to get the weapons.

Michael slowly – quietly – puts the swords onto the floor, as if fearing that a loud noise would wake Philippa, then takes a step closer and freezes again, hypospray in her hand.

Frowning, she licks her lips and presses it to Philippa’s neck.

It’s not a great idea, she knows. It’s the best one she’s got though. The light on the bracelet bright red, it won’t be much longer. It takes a few moments before Philippa inhales loudly – hungrily – with her mouth open and eyes bulging. Her arms fly in front of her face, meant to protect her from whatever danger she, disoriented, thinks she’s in – and Philippa sits up on the bed only to fall back again, her body overwhelmed with a seizure.

Her breathing hectic, she jerks to a side and crashes onto the floor before Michael can catch her. More coughing and hissing comes. Standing on her knees and elbows, Philippa slowly turns her face to Michael, her body shaking wildly, a grimace of hurt on her face, tears running down her cheeks, but her gaze unmoving.

There’s a lot she wants to say, _means_ to say, that much is clear, but her lips are pressed together, keeping another painful cry from escaping.

“I’m sorry,” Michael begins, and she cuts her off,

“Are you?”

Michael nods. Philippa sways and pulls herself off the floor, her back now pressed to the bed, she sits on her feet, watching dissolving hands. Then her gaze rests on the swords, her lips twisted.

“What will they charge you with for it?”

Surprisingly, Philippa’s voice is not sarcastic. It’s… _almost_ genuinely caring, or rather concerned, and for a moment Michael wonders if the emperor would put her daughter _who is not her daughter_ ’s safety above her own honor.

“You’re dying anyway. Captain knows it.”

“Thought euthanasia was not a thing in the Starfleet.”

“It’s illegal,” Michael nods drily, her whole body tense.

“And yet, here you are. Not yet _her_ , but not quite what _you_ were either.”

“These are unconventional times…”

“Poor kelpien had really hoped to have me off his ship before I'd fall apart,” Philippa twists her lips, grinning bitterly. There is a pause, and Michael remembers how Saru was going to let Georgiou meet her end on Discovery rather than explore a vague option that could save her. It has indeed turned out he was right, that planet was a waste of time, and their trip, or rather Discovery's absence during the trip, has given the Emerald Chain an advantage... She keeps it to herself. “Well at least he…” Philippa’s speech breaks with a quiet moan, and she bends forward, taking a few deep breaths. “He had it in him to lock me up here. Good decision. Especially for a kelpien.”

“He’s got nothing against you personally.”

“Of course not,” Philippa laughs and immediately cries out. “His own kind hasn’t been my regular meal for years, so why would… He,” she adds the last word with a heavy breath.

“We really don’t have that much time,” Michael nods towards Philippa’s wrist with a bracelet. “It’s red. Can you stand on your feet?”

Philippa leans forward and extends her hand to grab the sword, only she can’t. Fingers go right through the handle, she grimaces, tries again. And then again. When she finally gets a hold of the weapon, wrapping unsteady fingers around it, she doesn’t seem to be able to lift it – her elbow bent in an unnatural position, she frowns. With one knee on the floor, she places her second hand on the handle – next moment the sword falls back down with a ringing sound and a yet another grunt from Philippa.

“You’ve waited long enough to make sure it was too late, Michael,” Philippa spats and stands up on her feet, chin held high, hands by her sides.

It doesn’t occur to Michael at first what this gesture is supposed to implicate.

“I’m not going to chop your head off, Philippa,” she sighs, her eyes wide in shock.

(Death on her feet is what Philippa wants, though, and this might be the closest she can get at this point).

Michael shakes her head to clear her thoughts, then squats and picks up the swords. She stands still for a few moments right in front of Philippa, holding the weapons, watching her, then pulls the woman’s hand up, placing one sword onto it, pressing her fingers to Philippa’s wrist as if to make sure it is still there. Slim fingers grab the handle quicker than Michael expects. She senses a push to her chest, and hears a whistle of the metal flying through the air just an inch above her head when she ducks.


	3. Chapter 3

Michael ducks, jumps to a side, rolls backwards and blocks Philippa’s sword with her own, a ringing sound filling the brig when two pieces of metal collide. For someone who was falling apart just a moment ago, Philippa’s blows are strong and precise.

It’s not a game.

Philippa is certainly not treating it as such. She’s going all in, and there’s a moment when Michael feels it’s rather an accident a sword doesn’t cut through her Starfleet uniform. Philippa kicks her, hard, where Michael doesn’t see it coming, then swings the weapon just an inch away from Michael’s neck, fire burning in her eyes.

“Why are you holding back?” Philippa cries. It’s loud. It’s angry.

It’s desperate. 

Michael takes a deep breath and throws herself forward. She doesn’t plan on getting punched – she gets punched nonetheless, the sword handle hits hard between her ribs, and then Philippa’s boot smashes into her temple. She crumbles, barely escaping the sword yet again, her vision filled with colorful stars.

She can’t do it.

She knows she should, and yet, she finds it so difficult. If she starts fighting – really fighting instead of just evading the blows, she’ll have to kill Philippa. That’s the plan, it’s been the plan all along, but now it’s too…

Michael roars, pushing herself up from the floor, her sword hitting Philippa’s hard, almost knocking it out of the woman’s hands. _Almost_.

“You have always…” Philippa shouts when their swords collide again, and her fist connects to Michael’s chest, “been far greater than you can imagine. Far stronger, Michael!”

It is a strange time for sentiments, though, it doesn't seem they'll ever have any _other_. Michael nods briefly, biting her cheek. Next moment she knocks Philippa off her feet and backs away, letting her get up.

 _On her feet._ She wants to die standing, she will.

_She will._

The light on Philippa’s bracelet blinks red as soon as she's standing again and she sways to a side. Michael frowns, worries – big enough of a distraction to allow the sword’s blade to cut right through the fabric of the uniform on her hip. It goes through her skin. It stings. Michael hisses. Instinctively, her body throws a kick. She tries to soften the blow, and it lands almost weightlessly onto Philippa's chest, but that is enough to send the emperor back onto the floor.

Gasping. Moaning through gritted teeth.

Michael curses under her breath, bites her cheek and bends to pull Philippa up to her feet. She's met with a kick - one meant to be strong, and under normal circumstances it would send Michael flying a few feet away, this time it barely registers. It is merely an unpleasant push to her abdomen.

She watches Philippa, but Philippa isn't watching her. She's curled up into a ball, her body shaking wildly.

"Get up and fight!" Michael yells with all the strength and mercilessness she can manage. A fake anger, and her voice almost trembles, but Philippa jerks in place, hands pressed to the floor pushing her body up, forehead pressed against the floor. "Can you get up?" she adds quieter, much softer. Her voice cracks with worry and becomes caring.

Hers, again.

Philippa growls in response, hisses, rising to her feel, sways, but picks up the sword. Her lips pale, pressed into a thin line, her eyes half closed, she stares at Michael, making her wonder if, perhaps, Philippa's vision is a blur. Time is running out. She takes an unsteady step forward, and the sword falls through her palm, blood dripping from skinned fingers. There’s a moment when Michael still expects – no, she _hopes_ , but she also knows she shouldn’t – that Philippa will pick up her weapon.

(She’ll bend and pick it up, she will, in a moment).

Instead, it’s Philippa’s body that is following the sword onto the floor. Slowly, so very slowly, because as much as her legs seem to be falling apart, dissolving bit by bit and bleeding onto the floor, Philippa still fights to keep her posture.

Michael grabs her under her arms just as her knees bend uncontrollably, in a direction they shouldn't be able to. She holds her up, presses her close to her own body for support – and with a corner of her eye she sees something sparkling in Philippa’s hand. It moves towards Michael’s neck – not nearly fast enough to actually reach its target, and Michael wonders how this weapon doesn’t go right through the woman’s dissolving fingers. (But it's got a Terran symbol on it, so Philippa must have preserved it since her arrival to this universe). Michael grabs it, pulls it away. (She doesn’t even need to apply force).

Gazing back at Philippa’s face, she gasps. Had it not been _her_ , the emperor, there’d be screaming and begging for a quick end by now, she doesn’t doubt that, because there’s blood on Philippa’s face – coming down from the corners of her eyes and mouth, lips sealed tight, chin trembling.

“I got you, Philippa,” Michael whispers, squeezing the dagger in her hand, pulling Philippa even closer to her chest. She isn’t heavy and she isn’t resisting the embrace. She’s just breathing loudly, her eyes wide open, staring at Michael’s face.

“I’m not her, Michael, not your captain,” she pushes and winces, catching air with an open mouth. She's not her captain, and she expects it to be enough to make it easier to kill her, but it's not.

“No, you’re not my captain. But you’re _my_ Philippa.”

Something barely audible comes out of Philippa’s mouth, it almost sounds like a protest, and Michael swallows hard, points the dagger to the back of Philippa’s neck, the tip of the blade touching emperor’s skin, but not yet cutting into it, and squeezes her eyes shut, breathes faster, louder.

“Michael…” she hears and pushes the dagger forward. The body in her embrace stiffens. Philippa doesn't feel this new small pain, because it's _nothing_ compared to what she's going through. Her hand rests on Michael’s shoulder, and Michael holds her up as her forehead bumps into her chest. There’s still hectic breathing coming from Philippa, and blood everywhere Michael can see.

“I’m so sorry,” Michael whispers, and somewhere deep inside her mind, her Vulcan logic screams how this isn’t something she should be sorry for. The emperor would have died on her ship in the Mirror Universe if Michael hadn't pulled her to Discovery. She’d die, she’d _have died_ anyway.

This doesn’t make it feel any less like her fault yet again.

“What I feel for you, belongs to you, not anyone else…” Michael says softly, lowering Philippa down, her head on Michael’s lap. Her eyes still open, there’s no life in them, no breathing; her skin and muscles and bones go on dissolving as Michael wraps her arms around Philippa’s shoulders.

She’s crying.

The blood Philippa’s lost starts to dissolve, too, stains on the floor becoming smaller.

“I’m so sorry…” Michael cries, unsure what or who she’s sorry about.

“She got what she wanted in the end,” she hears Saru’s voice behind her back. “An honorable death.”

Michael nods, unable – yet – to turn around and face her captain; her head still bent above the body on her lap.

**The end.**

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really more of a vidder than a ficwriter, but Georgiou is so amazing I cannot keep my hands away.  
> Queen of freaks (mirror Philippa): www.youtube.com/watch?v=FaiaTGrRc5k


End file.
